The Begizzer's Major Compenditory
by sanctumlykos
Summary: Ever wondered how the spells were discovered? Meet Eustace Fipps, a wizard trying to widen the world in which Harry Potter lives. A canon-compliant intended, one-off exploration of an external aspect to how daily magic is done.


****The Begizzer's Major Compenditory****

Eustace Fipps was probably one of the last true freelance Begizzers in all of England; and if you could have distilled Begizzerdry to its quintessential core values, Eustace Fipps was almost the ideal Begizzer for being methodical, regimented, patient, precise and cautious – with a steady mind for detail and order – and certainly not one that tires of repetition.  
Eustace lived in a simple single room rented from the daunting and iron-jawed Mrs Keppler, at a no-nonsense Bed and Breakfast in a tidy farming village on the outskirts of Nottingham.  
Like Eustace's psyche, his room was neat, beige, and orderly, and Spartan in its reduction to only the most absolutely necessary of furnishings.

He was considered throughout the small community as dependable, quiet and normal: except maybe for his bizarre enjoyment of stone cold chicory coffee; his peculiar habit of wearing, every day, Cuban-heeled cowboy boots and a lime-green plastic cagoule with nine zipper pockets for Useful Things; and occasionally some villagers had noticed his little "lucky stick" that he carried – although most just assumed Mr Fipps to have the unusual hobby of being a diviner of water.  
Eccentric, perhaps, but understandable. If only they knew.

But neither Mrs Keppler nor Mr Cullen, her other regular at Dunwurken Bed and Board (No Pets, No Access After 8pm, No Smoking – No Time-Wasters), ever suspected that they had a Begizzer in their midst – or even that there were such things as Begizzers.  
And as all three were shy types, only ever exchanging the very smallest of small-talk and most unoffensive and unspecific of pleasantries, and living entirely in their own safe little bubbles; neither Mrs Keppler nor Mr Cullen were ever likely to suspect that they knew a __wizard__ , or to comprehend their own non-magical, "muggle" status.

In fact, Mr Cullen – if he thought about Eustace at all – would suspect him of working as an accountant, or actuarial, or for the veterinary service, or some other such drab and tedious profession – certainly not a "more-interesting-than-it-sounds-when-you-get-to-know-it-honest" Chartered Surveyor, like daring Mr Cullen.  
Mrs Keppler herself believed "our Mr Fipps" to work as a scientist in some dull lab on the outskirts of town, where he probably tried to invent a new form of Teflon or Velcro, or something: the company, or perhaps more likely bank, that paid his one-month-in-advance rent (always on time, always exact) into her own account sounded to her as vaguely scientific or maybe Swedish or something.  
As she looked at her bank statements, she occasionally mouthed the name to herself: "Grin-gotts"…? And sometimes it said that an extra pound-or-so was paid to "ensure fairness regarding minor fluctuations in the Pound-to-Galleon exchange rate"… So, maybe one of those far-flung little places like Borneo or Burma?

But although close in her guess, in fact his bank was a rather famous Goblin bank based in London; his long-saved money exchanged from the wizarding currency of Galleons, Sickles and Knuts; his profession was as a 'Lexical Begizzer' (or word-based Spell Explorer/Inventor); and his workplace was a disused farm… or rather, an overgrown corner of that farm… or rather, in an overgrown corner of a disused farm, down inside an enchanted series of plastic barrels.  
So… close, Mrs Keppler, but no cigar (that you wouldn't let anyone smoke anyway).

Every working day (and to driven obsessives like Eustace, weekends were something that happened to __other__ magic-users), he would cycle in his cowboy boots and cagoule to the rusty gate, cautiously looking all around while unlocking, moving through, and relocking the gate. He would travel up the tangled and overgrown path, mumbling secret words under his breath, to the disused farm that he inherited years ago from a disappointed muggle father.  
Ensuring he wasn't followed, even to the point of performing a sweep-scan of the sky very carefully, he would continue to mumble a series of protective charms (including two Apathy Barriers that few other wizards were ever likely to have discovered, let alone found a counter for), before chaining up his bike at a rusted outbuilding with ten waist-high blue plastic barrels, and one heavy-duty metal barrel, all corralled and securely roped together in one corner. Just before entering, he would flick a switch on the outbuilding wall to a cable running into the first of the barrels, and then, lifting the lid of one of the plastic barrels, and swinging a cowboy-booted foot over the side, Eustace would descend deeper down than the barrel should normally allow, into what suddenly becomes a multi-chambered research facility of his own long, painstaking design.

Now in a small, surprisingly tatty lobby, shaped like an over-inflated reverse-capital-B, wood-panelled and lit with gently buzzing muggle fluorescent strip-lights, he walks to a small cupboard that holds candles, ink pots and feather quills, along with a small, twisted-corner paper bag of what appear to be sweets, but not one that any muggle sweet store shelf or jar has ever seen – for these odd sweets all make a surprising hubbub of off-key buzzes and mumbles as the door opens and light, falling upon their paper prison, "wakens" them.  
The lobby also has a small cupboard space for a neatly folded bundle of clothes. Eustace changes out of his ingenious muggle disguise, and dons (with a small sigh of relief at "coming home") one of his three folded sturdy robes – not just one set of robes, because something could happen to one; and not just two because, as you could probably already guess, Eustace is a wands-and-potions wizard, the magical equivalent of a belt-and-braces muggle – and then he steps into a severe leathery apron made of traditionally-cured dragon skin, before placing the neatly-folded cunning muggle-disguise in the appropriate space, and closing the door (leaving the not-unpleasant low cacophony from the excitable sweets to slowly die off).

Adjoining the grubby little lobby is a blue-tiled kitchenette (but with what can only be a miniature cauldron, not a kettle) and a door leading to a little round bathroom. From the kitchenette he opens a cupboard to see all the labels correctly facing him, and all the handles of the mugs neatly pointing to the right. Eustace may not care about presentation and appearance, but he certainly does like __order__. Not what something __looks like__ , but how something __is__. And when every handle is ready to go, for Eustace, all is right in the world.  
He makes himself a chicory coffee, before walking down the sole central corridor, passing double-door after double-door. At the end, he comes to a heavy, curved wall with one sturdy metal door – but he does not enter here yet, and instead heads left to a small, easily-overlooked alcove – the cluttered cubbyhole of his mini-office – and sits in a chair that was (by no accident) uncomfortable-but-practical.  
Protruding from the curved wall on a rickety movable bracket is an oddly-pieced together item of candle holder and ratchet arm (that can only be described as a sort of angle-poise lantern) – he lights the candle within with a brief point of his 'lucky stick' and a word, " _ _incendio__ ".

Ahead of him, his little wooden writing desk holds only two green jars of ink and two stiff white quills; a small dark blue jar half-full of Atherton's Atonal Humbugs; a small coaster onto which he'll place his coffee and will invariably forget to drink; and a spectacles case of yellow dragon-hide which he would open, swiftly donning the small half-mooned ocular aids and placing his "lucky stick", or day-to-day wand (Elm and Unicorn Hair; 5 inches, Supple; polished to a pristine gleam with Snibbo's Preservative Resin, "Now With Added Nourishing Linseed Oils!"), inside for safe-keeping.

Such a neat desk, and yet all around, taking up almost all the remaining space, save for the tight path to the desk, the clutter in this cramped cupboard of an office is entirely made up of notebooks of different colours – great teetering piles of coloured books in ordered groups, like ramparts, battlements and spires of some peculiar, curved, rainbow paper castle.  
He'd swivel silently into position, and reach for the uppermost notebook atop the closest squared-away minaret of red notebooks (this one labelled "9-LETTER SWISH AND FLICK SPELLS: SAR-to-"), turn to the half-filled page marked by a deep purple ribbon (a gift from a witch friend from his youth at Hogwarts, the best-known British school of wizardry). The purple has faded slightly, but the cool silk of the ribbon still always makes his fingers tingle with nostalgic affection.

Taking his simple swan-quill in hand, and in the neatest minute scrawl of block capitals, he would transcribe from the latest entry in the first column "SARANAFOM" to copy directly beneath now as "SARANAFON". Then he would replace the quill to its inkpot, blow on the page to dry the dark green ink, place the purple ribbon back into the red notebook, close it carefully, before placing it neatly and exactly back on the red tower.  
He would open his desk drawer and take out his heavy-duty professional "Agnes Wand" (Teak and Pegasus Hair; 7 and a half inches, Rigid; dull wood, no oils or preservatives to contaminate the Begizzerdry); and then Eustace Fipps simultaneously tests its usage and extinguishes the candle (Point and " _ _Nox__ ") for safety and frugality; then a walk around the heavy wall to a cylindrical, gray-tiled reinforced chamber with a small slotted drain in the centre.

Other than a painted 'X' a third of the way in facing a clumsily-painted outline of a figure on one wall opposite the door, the only thing to denote the floor from the curved wall from the ceiling were gently glowing concentric circles in basic off-white upon the dark concrete floor, painted at 1-foot intervals from the drain, radiating out, and climbing the walls. Standing on the 'X' he would raise his wand like a conductor's baton, and with a tidy motion of a slow, even swish, and a neat little flick forward, he would precisely declare " _ _Saranafon__ ". He would watch the effect (in this case, a small, red frog appeared in mid-air, two feet ahead of him; gravity quickly catching up and calling it downwards to arrive with a delicate splat, causing the newly-found frog to make a slightly irate and surprised __whirrip-whirrip__ sound.)  
Then, after watching it hop around the chamber for exactly four minutes to ensure no hidden side-effects, the mature Begizzer would offer almost a fencing salute-and-swipe with his wand, and the words " _ _Deletio Incantatem__ ", and the leaden chamber would be entirely frogless again.

Some Begizzers would feel satisfied at one casting – Eustace Wands'n'Potions Fipps would repeat the spell no less than nine times, waiting the same patient four minutes for each.

Occasionally, the incantation will seemingly deliver no result in the empty chamber – and for some lesser Begizzers, that would be the end of the attempt, but not for Eustace Fipps.  
For Eustace, nothing happening is when the Begizzing __really begins__.

On the opposite side to the little cubby hole that barely passes for an office, there is a walk-in cupboard containing what Eustace considers the Tools Of The System.  
The Tools are a numbered set of jars that contain a wide range of examples for an element or target for each of the known kinds of spells – for instance, there are jars of fire, earth, air and water. There are jars of different metals, sands and stones, glass and very small quantities of precious jewels. Jars of materials and furs and feathers and foodstuffs and plant life and so on.  
Eustace would work slowly and methodically through each jar.

And if the Begizzing of his current nine-letter word yields no results on inanimate objects, early in Eustace's career, (like many who Begizz) he learned to conjure a Duplimate - an exact but mindlessly servile, temporary replica of himself – one that he could place into multiple precarious situations to test the word – falling, swimming, dancing, talking, eating; all read from a carefully prepared checklist.

Should none of this produce any result from the Begizzing in question, Eustace has been known to conjure domesticated wizarding wildlife (such as cats, snakes, rats, spiders, bats and toads) on which to test his unworking word. (Thinking is divided in the Begizzing world as to whether conjured matter is the same as regular matter – precious metals and items aside, as they are considered precious in the magical world simply __because__ they cannot be conjured – it is certainly true that there is yet to be a spell found that only works on unconjured matter, nor only on conjured, save __deletio incantatem__.)

And if the word still yields no results, Eustace will rack his brains to find any test for a situation in which the word may be useful… Even to the point of undertaking extensive research into previous uses of similar words in different languages.  
On the rare occasions that Eustace has left Nottingham (since his time in education at Hogwarts School of Wizardry and Witchcraft, and the post-grad and post-post grad at Poskitt's Polymagic College), it has been on a lengthy road trip to discover the origins and uses of one word. Whether entering back into the wizarding world, or even attempting to find answers in the muggle world, the exploration could take Eustace far out of his comfort zone and headlong into the wild and weirding world. A Begizzer's Holiday, if you will.  
All further Begizzerdry stops until __some__ use for the word is found.

Most muggles, many warlocks, and even some Begizzers might find such obsessive dedication to the quest for such small knowledge frustrating, and eventually move on – not for Eustace Fipps, this was where he truly came alive. Eustace was dedicated, and driven to know what new magics were possible, and forever sought the hidden cogs and springs of the inner workings of wizardry itself.

You'd be forgiven for thinking Eustace Fipp's life to be staid or stale, dull or robotic – from the outside, any life can appear less than worthwhile – but if you were to know the slowly forming universal jigsaw that perhaps only Eustace and Begizzers like him could ever come to know, you'd see that each new piece placed, and placed properly, and the resultant inner reward for that search revealed the true soul of the Begizzer. His mind fair fizzed and his heart truly beat in the painstaking hunt for new words, new magics, new ways of moving the witching world forward.  
Do not be fooled: Eustace was very much an explorer, an adventurer and a visionary.

Having ascertained the result of the Begizzing, he would walk back around the heavy wall to the little office, place himself in the revolving chair, swivel and reach for the red notebook again. He would turn to the page marked by the purple ribbon, and in the second column place a small, contented tick: the spell works.  
In the entirety of Eustace's career, he has never left a blank in this column. And Eustace takes pride in that.

In the third column he writes almost the same as the entry above, "SMALL RED FROG, DISTANCE TWO-FEET…"; only this time he would change it from "…CALLING CHEEEEEEK-CHEEEEEEEK" to "…CALLING WHIRRIP-WHIRRIP".  
The large fourth column ("Notes") he would this time leave as blank as the one above, and he would also leave the last little tick-box (without an explanatory title) empty as the one above. The spells that receive this special tick are the ones that our Mr Fipps is truly seeking, the more human reason he became a Begizzer in the first place.  
Then, he would start a new entry below reading "SARANAFOO", and the process would begin all over again.

Each time a page would fill, Fipps would take a slow slurp of (usually cold) chicory coffee, lift the lid on the blue sweetjar, and as light enters the jar and wakes the atonal humbugs within, that same discordant hubbub would fill his office – the sudden burst of unusual chaos making him a little giddy (well, giddy for Eustace, anyway) as he selects, maybe, a gooseberry and cardamom flavoured B-flat; then replacing the lid, and the monotonous sweeties would echo in their earthenware jar a short while before slowly returning silent. He'd pop the sighing humbug in his mouth; his breath would fog out pale green in colour, with his teeth resonating a tuning-fork-perfect B-flat, as he would suck and slurp upon his reward for completing yet another page.  
But his celebration wouldn't last long: the chair's intentionally hard, low wooden back would soon spur him on to eventually crunch down the humbug which would squawk out to silence; take another quick slurp of cold coffee, and Fipps would then transpose the last entry overleaf and continue with his working day, as the green-breathed mist above slowly dissipates.

Slowly, painstakingly, day-by-day the notebook would be filled to the brim with the gradual sum of carefully explored "9-LETTER SWISH AND FLICK SPELLS: SAR-to-SAZ". He'd complete the title of the notebook, Then he would replace the quill to its inkpot, blow on the page to dry the dark green ink; then select the next flat red brick from the tower of books, and transpose the last entry of that completed page to be the first entry of this next, blowing the green ink dry and gently placing the purple ribbon back into the new book on the first page, so as not to forget.  
And then a small trip down the central corridor with the completed book to one of the locked, double-doored offices, this one with a sign reading "Fipp's Minor Compenditory 3: SWISHES". A jangle of keys, a few whispered words, a hop on one leg, and a well-timed cough; and the doors would open themselves inwards to a vast cylindrical library with multicolour blocks of almost identical-spined shelves.

Walking past a first curve filled with entirely blue notebooks (one spine near the top neatly reads: "9-LETTER SWISH AND COUNTER-SWISH SPELLS: YOR-to-ZZZ"), then a second curve filled with entirely yellow notebooks (one spine at waist-height neatly reads: "9-LETTER SWISH AND OVERARM POINT SPELLS: GEL-to-GORF"), he reaches the ladder placed on a section filled five-eighths to the top with red-spined books. He climbs to place it on the next available space, neatly beside the red-spined "9-LETTER SWISH AND FLICK SPELLS: RIM-to-SAQ".  
And then he would descend the ladder, look to the last-remaining empty curve of library-space, sigh, and leave the room. Two coughs, a hop, a whisper and a jangle of keys; and then a trudge back to the cubbyhole to take the fresh red notebook off the top of the pile, a quick, accurate printing of "9-LETTER SWISH AND FLICK SPELLS: SCA-to-" and the process would begin anew.

Begizzerdry has been called by respected magical historian Bathilda Bagshot "the Incredible Art of Magic, anally explored," and Cuthbert Binns has called it "the painstaking study at the coalface of conjuring." However – knowing that it's more appealing to the discerning modern Wizarding audience to zaz history up with some unusual references and entertaining comparisons to the always-popular oh-so-silly muggle behaviour – the modern Floo-show historian Adamant Forbes-Willoughby goes further and derisively calls it "somewhere between slow muggle 'invention', haha, and the deadly-dull tilt and swirl of the bizarre pastime of panning for gold: that slow act for muggles, presumably, who haven't heard of the Philosopher's Stone!" and if that's not controversial enough to make the gossip pages of the Daily Prophet, when cornered for a soundbite for Floo-E entertainment trash, Adamant will say: "Pah! Magic for Mugglish Train-spotter-types and geek-wizards, only." Shock and awe, not to mention insult, of course, being good currency in the pursuit of cheap fame and/or infamy.

But in this methodical, creeping way, new spells are slowly unearthed that lurk unseen between the spells of old: the spells forged through trial and error, through semantics and willpower; and refinements are made to achieve the best, and most precise results.

Begizzers, rather like clowns with their unique make-up and faces, register at the Ministry of Magic to have a specific avenue or order which they follow. Sonic Begizzers test the various intonations, pace and pitch of a spell; Kinaesthetic Begizzers, the physical movements, stance and distances from target. In the last two centuries there has even developed a set of Existential Begizzers, who investigate the role that willpower and understanding plays on spellcasting – some attempt to cast spells without even thinking a word, or moving a muscle; some attempt to discover how translation between languages, and even basic alterations in pronunciation or rhythm, can affect the outcome – Si _ _len__ cio, silen _ _ci__ o, __si__ lencio or even, for example, as the Chinese practitioners of Wushi might say, __chenmo__! At first glance, only one of these (with a very specific wand movement) has been known to produce the desired muffling result – but Existential Begizzers work with various magical groups and delegations worldwide to break down the boundaries.  
Existential Begizzing is therefore not classified in the same way as other Begizzing, "ExBegging" being almost a cross between a diplomatic and a wholly academic branch of study, societal; whereas other Begizzing is more for personal exploration, for personal gain/renown.

And at the absolute wand's tip (what Muggles refer to as the scalpel's edge) of Begizzerdry, practitioners are currently trying to isolate a grand, unified, conceptual understanding of how such elements as willpower, opposing willpower (where appropriate), the exact state of the entire world at that moment, and even the concept of an external universal narrative, could all affect the outcome of a spell – but that's more a young Begizzer's game, and it's hard for older Begizzers to understand the practical use, or why so much of the new Begizzerdry conferences talk about an observer, half a cat and a marble on a sheet.

Eustace Fipps was registered as a 'Lexical Begizzer: first class', scouring the language syllable-by-syllable for new words of power.  
Each nine-letter word would take Eustace, on average, five hours to test. Some fly-by-night Begizzers gave shoddy, swift testing – looking for only the most basic knowledge, and care not for the consequences of a barely-understood spell being unleashed onto the world. It is perhaps unfair that these Barely-Beguzzers (as the trade usually calls them) have sullied the entire profession, and even more unfair that there's a good lifestyle to be made by doing a half-done job only.  
That said, there is certainly some truth to the old warlock's warning that: "there are bold Begizzers, and old Begizzers, but no old bold Begizzers; only smoking boots in an eight-foot crater where they used to be."  
Not only that, but unlike with any other cowboy trader/advertiser/politician in the muggle world, witches and wizards have much more… __creative__ ways of ensuring that the magical practitioners are held accountable for what they've claimed to have done, and been rewarded for.  
Customer service isn't just "profitable" or "niceness" to those selling to magical practitioners: Do not meddle in the affairs of wizards, indeed.

Eustace, while methodical and driven, was actually not the most obsessive, anal, and precise of his kind.  
There were Begizzers – like a gold-miner putting all his eggs in one basket to pan just one river; hoping that the saving of cost and the exclusivity of ownership would pay off – that only ever worked on one word, one gesture, one wand with one known wood and one known core at one known length and one known characteristic… to test every single permutation of how that one spell could be used. But these Specialist Begizzers, when encountered at all, are often considered… odd.  
And __very__ dull at parties.

And, like the aforementioned panning for gold where a prospector purchases from the relevant government the rights to pursue a seam or a location, a Begizzer petitions a country's Ministry of Magic: Administrative Registration Department for a sort of plot to work, or perhaps like a radio station buying bandwidth to exploit, Begizzers purchase sections of Lore to investigate…  
A shoddy Begizzer might work for a handful of years haphazardly mining their chosen 'vein' hoping to get randomly lucky, and exploring only simple offshoots from accepted spells. A thorough Begizzer like Eustace Fipps will work for a couple of decades on each section, refining his knowledge, and renewing his license every six years.

A Begizzer might then retire by publishing a small tome of precise directions, or perhaps an entire grimoire of perfected spells – and if the Begizzer is media-savvy, ridicules a few __imperfected__ spells.  
Calziferus Glaw as he retired, for instance, released what is widely considered to be the definitive specialist's guide to one particular spell's perfected delivery: " _ _Accio__ and Intent: The Complete Summoner's Guide". Within the hefty tome, a magician could come to understand the intricate differences in will, word, wand and wave between, say, summoning a feather on the table in front of you, and calling to heel an elephant charging through a sandstorm without having it land on your chest. Think of it as something like the difference between buying a "Car Maintenance for Dummies" book, and hunting out the __specific__ manual for a 1972 Austin Allegro 1.8l three-door, with the two-stroke double-cam v3 engine and the optional air conditioning... _In hardback_.

Begizzerdry isn't a young warlock's/witches game, though; it's slow and painstaking, requires dedication and perseverance, and can be even more dull than perhaps it sounds, if that's possible.  
And there can be severe risks: performing so much daily magic has very occasionally turned a sorcerer into a squib (although Healers at St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries are more and more convinced that this may be psychosomatic – and some are even experimenting with muggle methods of psychology to reverse the process – though most treat these as quack doctors trying to make a quick sickle from "muggly-cuddly" placebos.)

Another risk is that as a Begizzer would also use more, and __more varied__ , magic in one year than an average witch or warlock, it increases the risk of magical mishap (a sneeze in the wrong place, and a spell to make it snow can suddenly become an avalanche of scorpions, for instance: or at least that is what is believed to have gone wrong by the widower of the late Elmina Blatvatatsky, who had access to both her notes and the knowledge that she'd forgotten to cast her __divertus pollenus__ ward that spring, hayfevery day.)  
Not to mention that it's heavily skilled and a Begizzer's license can only be attained once a witch or warlock has proven to the Ministry of Magic that they're capable of handling, let's say, unexpected reactions.

After just over twenty-eight years of slow, painstaking, pixie-step-by-pixie-step discovery, Begizzer Fipps working all on his own has amassed 2,016,443 precise (and sometimes lengthy, cross-referenced, with descriptions and diagrams and suggested counters) neatly-printed entries, held on 61,710 pages in 2,057 notebooks, kept in six (so far – a plastic barrel is added as a new extension is required) libraries that he calls "Minor Compenditories".  
And every day, he has been cautious, he has been careful, and he has been methodically precise. And he has needed to be: a Begizzer walks a fine line of wandering into unknown territory, risking the accidental discovery of a dangerous and difficult-to-control spell; or the severe risk of a "drainout" of magical ability, considering the number of spells plied per working day; and/or the greater risk of a magical mishap. It should be noted that there is a very real risk of a Begizzer just… disappearing – often along with great chunks of the surrounding countryside – and there is a very good reason that Begizzers are licensed and operate in disused parts of the world where few roam, and where the various Ministries of Magic/Parliaments of Power/Wu-Shi-Wei-Yuan/Wizengamots and Sorcelries can effectively protect the muggles and cover-up any… accidents.

But even with the perils, there are some occasional, but potentially very substantial, rewards… And – like Eustace's possibly-unique Apathy Charms – every Begizzer holds a small collection of spells known only to themselves: Spells that work so effectively, they have no known counter-charms. Spells and techniques that offer duelling advantages can be found this way, even for less-powerful wizards. Spells that bring great advantage of wealth, or control, or power; that can improve the wizard, their chances in life, or could even alter the world.

And for Begizzers everywhere, there is another store, a secret store, and for Eustace Fipps it is a different "Compenditory", a __Major__ Compenditory – and that is the private collection of the Begizzer's greatest finds…  
And it is, of course, highly valuable; and poachers are always on the prowl.


End file.
